Fiendens Fiende
by Landgren
Summary: Despite their bitter hatred of each other, there is one thing that binds the Craftworld Eldar and the Dark Eldar together: Their hatred of She Who Thirsts.


************** Fiendens Fiende **************  
  
From space, the craftworld of Ordolian looked like a living thing. Its surging hull, dotted with crystal windows and domes, rose at the prow into a forest of slender towers and antennas. The keel, dragging below and behind in the void, resembled nothing as much as roots. Across the hull lights glittered and pulsed, like blood in veins.  
  
But some areas lay dark. This was the cancer of the craftworld, areas which had been abandoned and left to decay. The inhabitants of Ordolian was not as prosperous as once they had been, and little by little, with each passing life, the darkness grew. The wraithbone fell silent as even the spirits of the infinity circuit became less and less inclined to visit. Now, centuries passed between the flickers of a sad, lonely soul within these dark corridors. Except for them, the occasional wayward warp spider was the only visitor.  
  
On the outside of one of these areas, near the ruins of a vast dock, sat a lonely Eldar in lotus position. A thin bubble of air was all that separated him from the void and a grizzly death in the cold vacuum. His exotic and colourful garb flowed gently around him, almost as if it could sense the solar wind from the faraway stars. He sat with his eyes closed, whispering softly in an archaic language. His name was Ildrain, and he was here to sacrifice his world.  
  
Ildrain had walked the path of the seer only for a short time. Before that, for many centuries he had studied the history of their ancient race. He had travelled with the Harlequins, listening to their tales from the world before the fall. He had travelled far and wide along the webway, along paths which had been ancient when his race fell, old enough to have seen the Slann pass by. Once, he had even glimpsed the Black Craftworld lurking in the abyss. And in these labyrinthine depths he had found his way home. He had found his way to the crone worlds.  
  
The former realms of the Eldar, now crawling with warp daemons and ironclad savages. He had seen the fields run red with blood as mon-keigh fought mon- keigh. He had seen the city ruins trodden down by metal giants and grinding machines of war. He had seen a debased warrior-human proclaim himself king and warlord over a world which the Eldar had created and then abandoned. And it had angered him.  
  
Their lands, their warp-spawned powers and their god, all they had, was theft. Theft from the Eldar. The god they served was the god of the Eldar, created by them in their image. They where his, and he was theirs, and the gifts he had bestowed upon these critters should have befallen the Eldar. Cowering in the void, they were slowly dying. But if they went back, back to the Eye of Terror, the Eldar could once again rule the galaxy. They had survived the fall, and now was the time to return to claim their ancient worlds and their newborn god.  
  
Many years had passed since he saw the crone worlds, and now he was finally ready to go back. This time, he would take Ordolian with him. Ironic, that the enchantments he was going to use had been penned down by humans and then hid away by his fellow Eldar. With it he would restore the Eldar to power and crush the human civilisation inside the Eye. And Ordolian had no choice but to play along. Given time, they would come to see the benefits of what he was about to do.  
  
Ildrain held a small bowl, containing various bodily fluids, in his hands, and lifted it above his head. He lit the contents with a psychic spark, which made it burn with an eerie purple glow. As the foul incense slowly filled his confined space with a sweet stench, he could sense his god smiling at him.  
  
What he did not sense were the eight wraithcannons bearing down on him from behind.  
  
-----  
  
Ildrain hung three feet above the floor, held firmly in place by a wraithguard on either side grabbing his wrists and ankles. He was in an unfamiliar room, dimly lit and filled with webway portals. Before him stood the intimidating form of a farseer. She was dressed in full combat armour, an elaborate mask hiding her features and her true identity.  
  
Minutes passed, as she simply stood, looking at Ildrain's bruised face. The wraithguard had not been gentle when bringing him here.  
  
"Do you believe yourself to be invisible, Ildrain Seer?" she finally asked, a voice full of scorn. "Do you think you are a mandrake, able to merge with the shadows at will?" She lashed out with her left hand and grabbed his chin, her fingers cutting into his cheek. Leaning closer, she hissed "Or do you simply think that I am stupid?" She shook his head. "I have known about your activities for three years now. Oh yes. You simply assumed that you could walk alone through the webway? As if! What do you think that the Harlequins are, wandering musicians? Ignorant fool! And you were going to play with the dark gods, were you?"  
  
Her right hand struck his forehead like a hammer, and before Ildrain could get to grips with the staggering pain his captors released him and he dropped to his knees. Through the blood running down his face he stared up at the farseer standing above him.  
  
"I will give you a choice, Ildrain." she said, ice in her voice. "You can stay here, and answer before the council. Or you can leave through the portal behind you. It only leads in one way, and you will never be able to return."  
  
Ildrain slowly rose to his feet, wiping away the blood. He looked at the wraithguard surrounding him. He looked at the farseer.  
  
"I will never answer before your council." he said. Then he turned and left.  
  
-----  
  
Hellchild and Kinslayer were sitting on a rooftop, tossing the head of a dead slave between them. The unfortunate mon-keigh had been let out of the cabal's holding pens and into the Dark City, something that had provided a few hours of excitement for the two sybarites.  
  
By Dark Eldar terms, they could be called friends. That is, one would probably kill the other if he or she could benefit from it, not just for fun. Right now they were cooperating, uniting against their common enemy, the Archon of the cabal. This greatly improved their respective careers within the warrior ranks. But it was just a matter of time before one of them was offered a Draconship, and of course no sensible Dracon would keep a possible successor within his ranks. Such was life in the Dark City.  
  
"Do you think we can convince Kerechel to let go of one of those gene- altered mon-keigh we caught a couple of weeks back?" asked Hellchild, already bored by the few moments of inactivity. She spun the head on a finger, like a ball.  
  
"It would surprise me greatly if he did." Kinslayer motioned for her to pass the head back to him. "I heard that he and Lord Malevolence is having an argument about what they should do with them. As a matter of fact, the last thing I heard was that they should be traded for a couple of craftworlders. Scorpions." He winked at her.  
  
"Those.eh.aspect warriors?" Hellchild threw the head into the air and knocked it away using her wrist as a bat. Kinslayer caught it expertly.  
  
"Indeed. Now, this is only a rumour, but I heard that they would be given to the Incubi as a reward for their performance in the last raids."  
  
"So our mon-keigh pays for the Incubi's services? Aah, unfair!"  
  
They sat silent, passing the head back and forth in an absentminded way.  
  
"I guess we could always do a raid on Kerechel's workshop and steal one of them." Kinslayer said after a while. He tossed her the head.  
  
"That would." Hellchild started, but silenced and stared at something behind her comrade. The severed head passed over her shoulder and bounced away across the roof.  
  
With the excited look of a kitten catching sight of a bird she crawled past Kinslayer, who watched her with a surprised look, and up to the edge.  
  
"There!" she hissed, pointing at a spot in the streets below them. She started fumbling for her binoculars as Kinslayer leaned forward, trying to see what all the commotion was about. As he concentrated, he could discern a flow of colours in an alley down there. Someone, or something, wearing very strange clothes. A Lord? No, only an Incubus would dare walk around in the City alone, and that was not the black carapace of Incubi armour.  
  
As the figure stepped into the street, it looked very lost and confused. No- one who wanted to stay alive in Commorragh stood still for that long in that kind of clothes.  
  
That made him realise what he was looking at.  
  
This was the extravagant clothing of their decadent cousins. A craftworlder.  
  
"Ohmylord, I can't believe it!" Hellchild was leaning far over the edge, staring through her binoculars and looking like she could barely keep herself from drooling. "Look!" She thrust the binoculars into Kinslayer's hands. "Look!"  
  
He carefully raised the binoculars and looked down on the Eldar in the street. A seer, if he was not mistaken by his outfit. How in the warp did he end up there? As the man turned around, Kinslayer caught a glimpse of his face.was it true?  
  
Hellchild leaned close to him, whispering in his ear. "Do you have any idea what Kerechel would give to have such a man?"  
  
He lowered the binoculars, smiling. "An army of mon-keigh. An army."  
  
-----  
  
Farseer Teudris watched as the portal closed behind Ildrain, a cold smile beneath her mask. Yes, he would never answer before the council. A coven of Haemonculi, on the other hand.  
  
As she motioned for the wraithguard to leave, she considered the object in her right hand. The thing was a heavy metal handle, ending in a relief of two glyphs. It left a clearly visible scar that would never heal.  
  
The two glyphs were "Slaanesh" and "worshipper". 


End file.
